


Sweater

by RaceyBoi



Category: Newsies - All Media Types
Genre: Aged-Up Character(s), Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-17
Updated: 2017-11-17
Packaged: 2019-02-03 16:36:18
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 901
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12752073
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RaceyBoi/pseuds/RaceyBoi
Summary: Just some fluff





	Sweater

Spot Conlon liked to believe that old saying “The clothes make the man”. He believes that people are inherently judgemental and so he always dresses for first impressions and lasting reputations. He purposely put up a cold-front even with his clothes to give off “cool” and “dangerous” vibes, which means his closet is filled with bomber and leather jackets, rough looking shirts, and the occasional flannel. None of these clothes are particularly threatening, but they go along not-so-nicely with his death glare and RBF.

Race, who’s clothes consisted of mostly flannels that make Spot look like a twelve-year-old and sweaters, was often caught stealing Spot’s clothes but Spot didn't usually raid Race’s side of the closet. Usually.

When Spot got home from work, he wanted to collapse in his apartment doorway. He took a deep breath, ran his hand through his hair, and managed to lug himself to the bathroom. His mind must have run for the hills in a desperate attempt to escape his awful day, because he was basically on autopilot.

Blindly, Spot put on comfort music and prepared for a quick shower. Once he hit the water, the auto-button must have crashed. Three songs passed by while Spot leaned against the tiled wall, letting the water rain down on him. At some point after that, he found himself lying at the bottom of the tub. He wasn't sure how many songs played before he gathered the motivation and strength to get up.

After his shower, Spot dried off and put on a pair of boxers. He stared at his closet for a minute before ripping Race’s favorite sweater off of the hanger. It was a plain, solid green sweater that was torn at the neck and worn down from years of wear-and-tear and love. Spot rubbed the material in between his fingers before throwing it on to curl up in bed.

He closed his eyes and took a deep breath, pleasantly surprised as Race’s cologne filled his nose. He wrapped his arms around himself, trying to remember that Race would be home soon and his bad day would be chased away by clumsy kisses.

Spot rubbed the edge of his sleeve in between his thumb and index finger. He focused on thoughts of his boyfriend to push away the negative memories. 

Race’s laugh.

Race’s shit eating grin.

The way Race looks after waking up.

Race’s cooking.

Race’s dumb jokes.

The way Race doesn't knows exactly what to say, but it works anyway.

Spot took another breath, another waft of Race’s cologne rising to his nose. Growing up, he was taught to be independent, that only the weak relied on others. 

Now he liked to think he knew better. 

As the years rolled by, Spot found himself being more open to more people. For a few months, he resented himself for it. Until Racetrack Higgings squeezed his way into his guarded heart. Their relationship started off rocky but now the mere sight of Race calmed Spot down. The mere smell of his cologne on a dorky sweater.

Spot squeezed himself a little tighter as he peaked open an eye to look at the clock by his bedside. As if on cue, the door to his apartment opened. For a second, Spot thought about quickly changing into a different shirt. Then he sat up and yelled Race’s name.

In less than five seconds, the bedroom door slammed open. Race stood in the doorway, halfway expecting Spot to be physically dying. Instead, he just looked tired. Incredibly adorable but also tired. 

Race smiled, “You're wearing my sweater?”

“Yeah, what of it?”

“The great Spot Conlon.” Race climbed on the bed behind Spot and wrapped his arms around him, “In a sweater. Call me sappy, but there goes my heart.”

Spot let a small smile tug at his lips as he looked up and kissed Race. “You're sappy, Higgins.”

“Listen, Spot.” Race hushed, “You hear that? It’s my heart breaking.”

Spot snorted and playfully turned to shove him before quickly leaning back into his chest. He knew that Race knew something must be wrong, but Race knew better than to pry a bad day out of him. So instead he’ll crack jokes and be as mushy as Spot will endure. 

“I know you have your cool kid cred to look out for, but you should really check out my side of the closet more often.” Race kissed Spot’s head.

“That so?” 

Spot let out a small yelp and tugged away from Race as he bit his ear. Race laughed when Spot turned around to hit him in the chest. “You know I value my life too much to call you adorable, but” he dragged out the last word before leaning to his side, pulling Spot down with him. Race tangled their legs together and squeezed his arms around Spot’s, trapping them to his sides. “You're adorable!”

Spot groaned. He pushed Race’s arms away and turned around so they were facing each other, their legs still entangled. He played with Race’s hand, “You know if you keep saying that, I’m going to stop wearing sweaters.”

“Come on, Spotty. My favorite boy in my favorite sweater, you really expect me not to be head-over-heals?”

Spot grinned and planted another kiss on Race’s lips. He snuggled into his chest as another hint of cologne filled his nose, the memories from today far forgotten for now.


End file.
